Nightstick
Death To Music

What suffocating and heavy shovels of manure will you burden yourselves with, sunken in the provincial swamp of your pretty little house? And you'll choke on them too, suffocated by the stench of ammonia, you'll slump slowly and die in the muck, with the spade falling on the flabby body like a stiff blanket and you'll remain there, soaked in sludge. For you, the music is over.   

--- The Big Black said: "In culo..."; a poverty of impulse, old mumble mumbles close to the heat that burns them. And that swollen body in the puddle, are they looking for it? Flooded with slime, sawmills that tear through sultry nights, fragments of neon in electric supermarkets ---- were the timid clerks fiercely cracking? - And this even resembles me just for this lousy job, bury the black earth with earth, grab a handful of sand and throw it in my mouth, chew it well, savor it and then swallow it, without drinking, like this, dry!-----:"What did the Big Black say?"----"He said "IN CULO!"---"Ah...then, vaffanculo!!!".

The old mumble mumbles can still make sense of it, oh yes. They lift up ominous eyes of molasses embittered by time and resentment and spew corrosive saliva from those rotting tobacco-stained teeth and brood densely and collect young thoughts. You feel the tragic stench of duty. The spade is already there, stuck in the dung. The sludge grips the grave.

Close the door to your house tightly.